


Stolen Innocence

by NicoNoble



Series: Stolen [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Aftercare, Age Play, Bondage, Butt Plugs, Daddy Kink, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dom/sub, Drugged Sex, Dubious Consent, Forced Infantalizatation, Intercrural Sex, Kidnapping, M/M, Mind Games, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Non-Consensual Somnophilia, Oral Sex, Rape, Sex Toys, Sexual Slavery, Spanking, Stockholm Syndrome, Unhappy Ending, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-19
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-08-25 21:45:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16668880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NicoNoble/pseuds/NicoNoble
Summary: Cosmin Vasile is an orphan in Romania. His mother died when he was young. At sixteen, he knows far more about the world then any teenager should. Children are being snatched all over Eastern Europe and without any reason or goals in his life, he concocts a plan to save them. It involves being captured himself. With the help of another boy he gets all the evidence he needs to turn the American government against Madam Volkov. The only issue is escape.Alaric Leroy was born to be a king. His mother raised him to build his own empire. And he did. Years of going to school with rich white boys left him a lot of anger, until he realized all they needed was a little discipline. When he hears about Madam Volkov's boys, he can't help himself. He adopts himself a little white boy and gets exactly the fight he was bargaining for.Warning: This fic does end. It does not end nicely by any means, for Cosmin anyway. This is a work of fiction and is under no circumstances an acceptable way to treat people. This is an example of an extremely unsafe sexual relationship which dips into Stockholm Syndrome.Updates on Sundays, for now. I currently have the 1st 3 chapters done. Fic will probably be 15-20k when done. Unbeta-ed.





	1. Mail Order Baby

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter: Sexual Slavery is introduced, there's discipline in the form of slapping, and we end with a nice session of non-consentual somnophila on a drugged sixteen years old. If any of the above squicks you out, don't read.

 

You could get anything with enough money. Cars, corpses, fuck, anything. The boys at Madam Volkov's knew this well. They'd all been gathered from small, poor villages in Romania, Hungary, Bulgaria, Ukraine, Belarus, and Russia. Snuck over on cargo ships, months spent in cramped quarters without enough food. They were all sickly pale, ribs sticking out, faces gaunt. Orders would be delivered in thick Russian and often one would have to piece them together based on what the Russian boys and the bilangual ones did.

One of the older boys, Zima, spoke Russian, Bulgarian, and Romanian. He would often translate, under his breath, given time. He didn't like when the new boys were punished for ignorance. Cosmin Vasile was one of said new boys, but he often hung around Zima, and the older boy taught him enough Russian to get by in the month prior to Zima being taken away. 

 

The rules aren't difficult, really. There's a set routine and it isn't long before the latest batch of boys starts gaining back the weight they lost. They have to report for meals, keep themselves clean, stay still when their hair is trimmed and their nails are cut. Soft lotions and sweet smelling soap keep them soft and it isn't long before Cosmin realizes what this is. They're being prepped for sale. Rich American men will not want dirty, sickly boys from Eastern Europe. They'll expect healthy boys to sate their appetite. 

That's what they're paying for, after all. 

He reports to Madam Volkov for the first time after a month. He's dragged off after lunch instead of being sent back to his cell. He's stripped down to his underwear, which does little to hide him from the older woman's gaze. 

She hums thoughtfully. "We've received more request for littles, lately." Her Russian is thick enough where he isn't sure he understood her correctly. No, strike that, he's positive he misheard something. He's far to tall to be a little anything, even for his age. He's grown two inches since arriving in the states. 

"Sergei, what do you think?" She asks the guard at the door. 

"Learns quickly. Hot tempered. Cries easier." Sergei replies, no emotion in his tone. There never is. 

"Little it is then." She makes a note of something. "Take him to Ana, have her get him ready for pictures."

 

His hair is curled, just the ends, and some basic makeup is applied. Creme, like his mother used to apply in front of her vanity before work, is slathered on his face. The circles under his eyes are covered with a thicker creme. A wet gloss is applied to his lips with a brush and a pen is used to draw on his eyes, make them look bigger. He is dressed in a pair of lavender overalls that barely reach his knees, a t-shirt with a pastel rainbow underneath, and soft white socks. Ana offers him a pair of blue slip on shoes. He's frog marched over to a bed, made with white cotton sheets. 

"Lay down." Sergei barks.

He obeys, allowing Ana to pose him on the bed. Pictures are taken. A lavender pacifier is shoved in his mouth. At one point he is slapped so hard his cheek goes red and tears well up in his eyes. It's all for the sake of the pictures. He didn't do anything wrong. Towards the end Sergei brings the camera over and pins him to the bed, lays between his spread legs, and takes a few shots like that. 

It's emberassing and infuriating and if he didn't know Sergei would take the excuse and beat the crap out of him he'd have headbutted the son of a bitch. Ana takes the camera and Sergei pats his bottom. "Good boy." He purrs. 

Cosmin spits the pacifier out and growls at him. Sergei just thrusts against him, hard cock digging into his ass through two layers of cloth, and it shuts him up quickly. 

 

Alaric Leroy was born in Harlem. He shared a studio in one of the poorest neighborhoods with his mother. He grew up angry. Angry at the white boys at his scholarship school with their naivity and money. He'd learned quickly just how easy they were to scare, what they'd do with just a little pressure, and he'd come to realize that most of them, even the youngest ones, were like little kids. Innocent. In need of a guiding hand, discipline, the kind of tough love their parents wouldn't give them. And supplying it made him happy. 

As he rose in Harlem's underground, until every drug runner, every hitman, every pimp, and every gun seller bowed to him, he ignored the urge. Until he had more money then he could ever spend at twenty-five years of age, he kept the urge locked away. He went to school by day and ran his empire by night, destroying or eating every other gang, until even the mobster's in the other Burroughs accepted him as one of them. He owned Harlem and frankly, that was enough expansion for his life. His mother had wanted him to make a name for himself, given him a royal name, and he'd fulfilled her dying wish. Now it was time to do what he wanted. You could get anything with enough money, after all. 

 

Every boy Madam Volkov trots out tries his patience a little more. They don't understand the head guard Sergei, they cower, they cry, they beg in foreign tongues. There's no fight in any of them. When he mentions that to Madam Volkov she smiles like a viper and he half expects her to rip his throat out like the snake she is. "Sergei," She drawls, and the rest of the sentence is lost on him. He doesn't speak Russian. He hopes the next boy is Russian, at least, a translator is always welcome and he deals with four different branches of the Russian mob on a regular basis. That was how he heard about Madam Volkov after all. 

A girl comes in a few moments later with a tray. He accepts a glass of wine from her. Three hours has made him easily frustrated and bored, but he still nods his thanks at the girl. She leaves and Sergei returns with a boy. Alaric can already see the obvious differences between this boy and the others. His face is red, he's been hit recently. There's a stubborn set to his shoulders, even with the wet tear tracks on his face. Sergei shoves him forward and he snarls, cutting himself off before Sergei even lifts his hand. Sergei still hits him. He stands still, in spite of the hit, and he sees the anger dance in the boy's eyes. He thinks the boy is about to step down, but it appears he's had enough, because the next thing anyone knows he's spit in Sergei's face. 

"Enough!" Madam Volkov barks in English. Sergei wipes spit off his face. 

The boy turns to face Madam Volkov. " _OY_." He shrugs. 

Madam Volkov snorts before turning to Alaric. "You wanted angry, American, he's the angriest boy we have. To prideful. Little Romanian prince." 

He's pretty to look at, Alaric agrees, a little prince. His black hair curls cutely, just enough to add to his childlike face. His face is round with babyfat, he's shorter then Alaric, his eyes a pretty cherubic blue. He's wearing grey sweats and has no qualms about wiping his nose on his sleeve, like a child. His face is a pretty shade of red, flush from anger and the earlier hit. 

"I was hoping for a boy who spoke Russian." He says, after a moment. That's his only real complaint about this one. 

"Smart boy. Been here two months, could speak Russian after one." Sergei offers. "Not all, of course. But he gets by. Smart is his problem." 

"He's a smartass." Alaric grins, predatory. 

"Didn't say that." Sergei reaches forward and grabs the boy's arm. 

The boy goes rigid. " _Pakupka_? _Nyet_!"

Sergei laughs. " _Da_." 

"Do you want him?" 

Alaric hesitates before nodding. If the boy is smart enough to pick up Russian then he should learn English quickly. It works out well. 

 

Alaric lays the boy down on his couch. He's been drugged, will sleep for a day or more, at his request. He has a few things to finalize that he couldn't do before the boy was here. Clothes, of course, he could have asked Madam Volkov for the boy's measurements but that would mean someone else touching his prize. Alaric takes the measuring tape, bought spesifically for this purpose, and begins to measure. He makes a note of the exact measurements on a notepad. The boy snores softly, sleeping peacefully. Once the measurements are done Alaric boots up his computer and gets to work. The clothes will arrive tomorrow, baring any delivery issues. He spends over two hours choosing clothes and shoes and toys for his boy before heading to an online sex shop Madam Volkov had suggested. A training kit catches his eye. He's not a small man and he'd bought a virgin. It also comes with a cockring. Forcing his boy to try bigger and bigger plugs, not letting him cum. 

His cock stirs to life at the thought. Taking the ring off when he finally, finally enters his beautiful baby boy, pale legs spread wide so he can stare at that pretty pink hole swallowing his big, black dick. Fucking the boy through his first and second orgasm while he cries and begs for Daddy to stop, he's oversentative, it hurts. He adds the kit to his cart, along with a few other items, cock rock hard in his pants. 

 

When he's done he turns to face the sleeping boy. His mouth is part way open and Alaric shoves his thumb inside. The soft, slick, wet muscle beneath his thumb would feel wonderful around his cock. Instead he grabs the lube Madam Volkov had sent and pulls the boy's sweats down and flips him over. He's careful to make sure the boy's face lays to the side, so he can breathe, and he slicks up his cock before pressing it between the boy's hairless thighs. It's like fucking him but not. It feels amazing, his boy's cock rubbing against his. The boy moans in his sleep. Alaric speeds up, fisting his hands in beautiful black curls, and thinks carefully about where he wants to cum. At the last moment he spreads the boy's cheeks, just barely presses the head in, and cums. He pulls the head out and watches thick globs of semen flow out of the boy's still mostly virginal asshole. It's a glorious sight. He can't resist shoving a finger in there, fucking his boy with it, and using his other hand to prevent the boy from cumming. The boy is covered in sweat, the couch has cum on it, and eventually he'll have to stop and clean both out. With a sigh, Alaric removes his finger and picks his boy up bridal style. 

 


	2. Baby Boy's 1st Lesson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spanking, Non-Con insertion of a sex toy, infantalizatation, and Daddy Kink.

 

Cosmin Vasile knew about the trafficers, before he was taken. He knew the boys they took were like him, young and pale and  _pretty_ , still. He decided if he was taken he'd destroy them. He watched a lot of American TV. Law and Order SVU and Criminal Minds and he learned English that way. He also learned that Americans as a whole found sex slavery disgusting. That meant if he could escape, get to law enforcement, get names and information, he could bring the whole organization and the mothers crying in the streets looking for their sons would be fine. His mother always said he wanted to be a hero. Now, with her dead, there was little else he could imagine doing with his life. The Orphanage was rundown, the children were always hollow eyed and hungry, there was no point in avoiding the trafficers. He would be a hero. Having a photographic memory helped with that. He had snuck into Madam Volkov's office while Zima guarded the door and memorized her entire ledger. He had the names of every man and woman involved in the organization. He would destroy them all. He just needed time. 

 

Cosmin woke up slowly. The room spun, a painful ache in his head. He groans. " _Where's that American asshole_?" He grumbles in his mother tongue. 

It isn't long before the door opens and he curls up under the blanket, watching the American with concern. 

The blanket is taken and he lies there, bare save for his sweats, and waits. The American reaches out and he flinches away. He's picked up like he weighs nothing, which really, in comparison to a six foot something monster, he doesn't. Because this man is a monster. He buys people. People should not be sold. It seems like a pretty simple thing, morally, so he doubts this man has morals. 

The man sets him down on a light grey leather couch and hands him a piece of paper. The writing is Romanian. 

_Rule #1 No trying to escape_

_Rule #2 No fighting_

_Rule #3 Obey without question_

_Rule #4 Learn when you're taught_

_Rule #5 Call me_  Daddy

The last word is in English. He feigns struggling with it. Mumbles a few variations of what the spelling could be before getting it right and the American smiles. His hair is ruffled. 

He's handed a tablet with a Post-It note.  _WiFi disabled, lessons downloaded. For learning only. All other apps blocked._

Cosmin stares at him blankly. 

The man stares back at him and he presses the green app when the man points to it. It's set up to teach English for a Russian. Luckily, his English is better then his Russian so he can fake it later. For now he opens the first lesson and the man heads into the kitchen. 

It's simple. Letters, at the moment. He purposefully gets a few wrong and the tablet vibrates with every wrong answer. He redoes the lesson a few times until he completes it correctly every time. Once that's done breakfast is brought over to the coffee table. He's picked up and dropped on the floor. He has to kneel to reach his plate. It's shaped like a cat, white and pink. There's a sippy cup with pink pawprints of what looks like milk, god he hopes it's milk, and a silicone gripped pink fork. He's angry, of course, but the eggs and bacon will do wonders for his empty, protesting stomach. He eats quickly. The man grabs his hand suddenly and shakes his head. There's no need for a command, it's obvious what he means. Cosmin's hand is released and he returns to eating, slower this time. He uses the sippy cup, to his own charign, and it is milk. He finishes breakfast around the same time as the American and the man takes their dishes to the sink and washes them. Cosmin repeats his earlier process with the next lesson. The sippy cup is picked up and offered to him. He takes it, sipping periodically. After it's gone the man pauses and Cosmin looks up. He's been reading. He takes the cup from Cosmin and returns to the kitchen. Once Cosmin completes five lessons the tablet is taken and he's set up in front of the TV. Cartoons, like one would play for a two or three year old, are put on with Romanian subtitles. He zones out in front of the screen. It's boring. The shows have no plot, the colors are garrish and meant for toddler eyes. He yawns, clenching his fist in the carpet, unclenching, and repeating the motion over and over. 

He lays down on the carpet eventually, to bored to sit anymore, and doses. He's surprised when fingers snap in front of his face. He's meant to pay attention. He whines and the American picks him up. He goes still. Something bad is going to happen. 

The man chuckles and takes him into a room. It's as clean and white as the rest of the house, in terms of the walls and furniture. Pastel accents make the room look like it's meant for a young child. He's dropped on a twin bed, a blue blanket pulled over him. The man pets his cheek. "Naptime." 

Cosmin just blinks at him. It's to early to know what that means. 

 

You'd think, as smart as he is, Cosmin would know how to keep out of trouble. He doesn't. Or, at least, sometimes he gets so angry he doesn't care. But there comes a point where pride has to win out over survival instincts. 

The American draws him a bath and helps him out of his sweats before guiding him to the tub. Cosmin tests the water. It's just above lukewarm. He'd rather it was a bit warmer, but he's had worse. The foamy bubbles piss him off a bit, he's not a child, it's very patronizing if he's being honest. At least they cover him so the American can't see his genitals. Small mercy, that is, and of little comfort. If he's lucky the American just wants to humiliate him, infantalize him, not fuck him. He's not sure how much his pride will allow in that regard. And he needs to swallow his pride, needs to gain the American's trust, needs to save all of the other boys. The ones who have been sold and the ones who haven't. Calloused fingers wash his hair, a cup is used to dump water on his head to wash shampoo and later conditioner out. A wash cloth glides across his skin without hesitation. He's helped out of the bath and the plug is removed. The American takes a pale blue towel and dries him off, taking extra care with his hair. His privates are paid no more attention then any other part of his body. The touches are perfunctory only. He expects to be dressed immediately. Instead the towel is tossed in a hamper and the man picks him up, carrying him back to the bedroom from earlier. 

 

He's dropped on the bed and the man goes through a chest of drawers, returning with a pair of feetie pajamas, which is insulting enough, and a little blue box. The pajamas are set aside and his legs are grabbed, pulling him forward, and then spread apart. 

No, no way in hell is he gonna lie there and get fucked. He wants to scream and punch and snarl. Instead of disrobing, however, the American opens the box. He removes a small blue object, a silicone ring, and a tube of some kind. He squirts a sticky substance on his hand and grabs the blue object in the other, slathering it with the substance. 

It only takes a moment for Cosmin to realize what it is. " _Nyet! Nu!_ " He snarls, trying to jerk away. 

The American glances at him, smiling, and Cosmin lashes out. The American pins him easily, using his sticky hand to hold Cosmin's wrists together and using his legs to keep the boy's legs pinned open. He eases the blue object inside of him, a dark expression on his face. 

Cosmin gulps, resisting the urge to shake. The American gets up, leaves the room, and returns a moment later with a wet cloth. He cleans the sticky substance from Cosmin's wrists and tosses the cloth in a hamper before sitting down on the bed beside him. He yanks Cosmin across his lap by the hair, which hurts more then Cosmin is willing to admit, and he's surprised when a large, calloused palm smacks his ass hard enough to jerk him forward. It hits the bottom of the little blue plug, pushing it a little further into him, and he screams so loud he thinks his throat may be bleeding in surprise and anger. A hot, red warmth begins to spread across his ass. The next smack is met with silence, in a different spot. He never knows when they're going to land. He keeps quiet for the next dozen. Stubborn pride refuses to admit it hurts like a bitch, until he can't anymore, and little grunts of pain and big wet tears are exiting him against his will.

The American pauses. 

" _Nyet_  daddy!  _Nyet_!" He sobs. 

Five more smacks are delivered, hard, to one cheek and five to the other, rapidly, and it's over as suddenly as it started. The American lays him down on the bed and dresses him, patting his butt once he's finished, a reminder that he can and will do whatever he wants. Cosmin pretends the shaking is from fear. 

He wants to rip the man's throat out.


	3. Daddy Hates Lies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas! Happy Holidays!

Alaric watches the boy on the carpet, pretending to read. His boy is playing the language learning game again. He bites his lip when he fails, anger breaking through his blank expression a few times. He's been progressing quickly, both like this and with the plugs. He can string together two word sentences and take the second largest plug. He squirms, speaking of the plug. He still hates them but he hasn't fought them since the first time. He's a smart boy. 

The boy glances back at him once he's completed the level before looking at the clock. They always eat lunch around the same time and it's getting close. Lunch means the tablet gets put up for the day and the cartoons come on. The boy hates the cartoons, his face contorts into an angry expression that makes Alaric want to laugh, it's so cute, and then he gets bored. He starts to nod off after an hour and then he'll take a nap. They've settled into their new routine. To bad it'll have to change in a few days. Alaric has every last day of his two weeks off planned out, including having a day to monitor and help his boy recover after his first time, before returning to his empire. 

The boy starts another level. He completes it just before two and Alaric takes it. Lunch is simple, a bowl of Mac 'n Cheese and a glass of apple juice for his boy and a sandwich for him. The boy eats his food, ignoring the TV, and Alaric has to lift his chin and make him watch several times. He's not willing to smack him for getting bored unless he throws a tantrum, which has yet to happen. The apple juice takes longer to disappear. Not as long as milk, but longer then food. The boy snarls when a certain character comes on screen and Alaric has to admit that one's voice grates on his nerves as well. 

He turns the TV off early and the boy looks at him, curiousity obvious on his face. He has no pokerface. Alaric pats the couch and the boy walks over, sitting beside him. Alaric points to himself. "Daddy."

The boy nods. 

Alaric points to him. "You?" 

"Cosmin." The boy clenches his fists in his lap. 

Alaric smiles. An interesting name. He's curious what it means. 

"Are you a good boy?" 

Cosmin scowls at him. Either he misunderstands or he finds the question insulting, either could apply to his prideful little boy. 

"Cosmin." He warns. He knows that expression, the deepening scowl means the boy is going to disobey or break a rule. He gives him one warning when he notices it. 

"No." Cosmin grumbles, crossing his arms. His accent isn't bad, nowhere near as thick as Sergei or Madam Volkov's. Alaric wonders if his boy's Russian is as good. 

"Is that going to change?"

Cosmin's expression edges towards fear before he shakes his head, rapidly, and scoots back. 

"We'll see." Alaric gets up and carries his boy across the room and picks up an Amazon box off the floor, before heading into his boy's room. 

 

He cuts the box open, returns the scissors to where Cosmin can't reach them, and comes back. Cosmin is still sitting on the bed, bare feet ghosting the floor. He's wearing purple shirts and a blue polkadot t-shirt today. The shorts were meant for a girl, they cup his ass nicely. The shirt was as well. Alaric sits down on the rug and starts pulling things out of the box. Three stuffed animals, a few little kid books like  _See Spot_ _Run!_  and  _Clifford_. The stuffed animals include a black cat, a brown teddy bear, and a pink cat. He sets them out on the carpet, facing Cosmin. "Pick."

Cosmin scowls at him, arms crossed over his chest, but after a moment he gets up. He kneels in front of the toys, licking his lips nervously. He reaches out, petting each toy, before settling on the teddy bear. He looks like he's about to cry before he knocks it over and moves for the others. 

That's an interesting reaction. "What's wrong with the bear?" 

Cosmin pulls the large, fluffy pink cat into his lap. It's substantially bigger then the black one. He hides his face in its fur. He using it for comfort already. That's food for thought. 

Cosmin stares out from behind the cat, wipes at his eyes, and a stubborn snarl finds itself on his face. He remains silent. Alaric places the black cat in the closet before returning to the bear. "If you tell me why I'll get rid of it." 

"Mama...bear." He growls. 

"Your mother gave you a bear like this one?" Alaric clarifies, picking the bear up. 

Cosmin nods, hesitantly. "Mama...gone." 

"Dead?" 

Cosmin cocks his head. Children's shows don't exactly go over death. 

 

Alaric answers his phone on the second ring, laptop balanced on his lap. He glances down at Cosmin, who appears to be busy rereading a Clifford book, his new pink cat half crushed beneath him. He sips a sippy cup of grape juice periodically and snacks on a plate of baby carrots and ranch. Finding vegetables Cosmin doesn't toss in his face, spankings be damned, is difficult. He's started making his boy a smoothie around lunch with veggie powder, which gives him the five servings of recommended vegetables. Anything more then that is a blessing. 

"Sam, yeah, I hear ya." Alaric smiles at his boy. 

Cosmin visibly fights the urge to roll his eyes, staring at the book. 

_"Are you sure you can't come back till Friday? The Mexicans are getting antsy."_

"You can handle it." 

Cosmin hasn't turned the page since the phone call started. He's listening. 

_"How's your new toy anyway?"_

"Hm...difficult, but worth it. Pretty soon we'll have someone who speaks English and Russian, which will pay off." 

_"Oh, yeah, immensely. The Russians are excited at the prospect of not having to send a runner to translate. Fucking assholes."_

Alaric snorts. "Can you send the good doctor to give him a check up? Not that I don't trust that Volkov woman." 

_"Course, gotta keep your puppy healthy."_ Sam laughs. 

 

Alaric hangs up and stares at Cosmin. "How much of that did you understand?" 

Cosmin turns to look at him, cocks his head to the side, and blinks. 

"I swear to God, if you lie to me I'll beat the living shit out of you. You have a tell, boy, a whole fuckton of them-" He's on his feet, reaching for Cosmin, and the boy has backed up until he's pressed against the wall. "Answer me, damn you!" 

"All of it! All of it! Sorry, sorry, don't kill me  _please_!" Cosmin whimpers, curling in on himself. He has an accent of course, but it isn't thick, and he sounds far more comfortable with English then a beginner. 

"How long have you been speaking English?"

"Mama loved American and British TV." He glances up, eyes begging. "Grew up on it." 

Alaric stands. "Get up. Now." 

Cosmin starts crying, but he jerks to his feet immediately. 

 

Alaric is trembling with anger. Cosmin is kneeling by the bed, naked, forehead pressed against the sheets, hands clasped behind his head. "You will stay like that. You will not move. I'm going to go calm down and when I get back..." He growls. "We will handle this. Clear?"

"Yes." Cosmin sobs. 

"Yes what?"

"Daddy!" 

Alaric stares at the shaking boy, eyes drawn to the lavender plug between his legs. They should work through the next two before he takes the boy, but if Cosmin is adult enough to fake ignorance and lie to him, maybe the boy doesn't deserve the kindness. 

 

Cosmin shakes, sobbing hysterically into the bedding. This is going to hurt, he knows. And he's gone backwards in terms of trust, it'll be longer before he sees an opening now. The others will suffer longer. He isn't the only one this effects. He feels guilty then, a sickening feeling in his stomach. And what about Stockholm Syndrome? The longer he spends with the American the more likely he'll give in. 

The door opens after what feels like forever. "Get on the bed." 

He clammors to obey, kneeling there instead. 

"On your back." 

Another immediate response. Alaric gets on the bed, stares down at him, and he feels small. "Spread your legs." 

Cosmin chokes on a cry, spreading his legs. The plug peaks out of him. 

"Daddy's gonna fuck you, then I'm gonna spank you until your ass is black and blue, then I'm gonna fuck you again. Then, if I'm still angry, I'm gonna get the hairbrush and beat you again. If at any time you say anything other then Daddy, I'm gonna stop. I'll finish whatever I'm doing, fucking you or beating you, and then I'll leave you here, like this, for an hour and we'll resume. The longer this takes the longer before I forgive you. Can you do that? Control your lying fucking mouth?" 

Cosmin nods. 

Alaric smacks his ass. "What?"

"Yes, Daddy!" Cosmin squirms. 


End file.
